’Hooisht, Jim! hooisht! ne’er mind Moses
and his prayers. What did he say about th’
mortgage?’

’Say! why he said he’d oather hev his
brass at ten o’clock to-morn, or skift us wi’
law. And he’ll do it—­that he
will.’

’A, lad—­thaa says truth. Owd
Moses’ll keep his word; he never lies when he
threatens poor fo’k like us. But I never
thought it ud come to this. I could ha’
liked to ha’ deed in th’ owd chamber aboon,
and left th’ haas feet fermost when I left it
for good.’ And the old woman rocked herself
in her grief over the dying fire.

’Well, gronmother, wee’n all to dee, and
I durnd know as it matters where we dee as long as
we’re ready. It’s where we’re
baan to live as bothers me,’ said the hard-headed
daughter-in-law.

‘I’ve lived my life, thaa sees, lass.
I’m nobbud waitin’ to go to them as is
gone afore; and I could ha’ liked to foller them
from th’ owd haas. And then thaa’rt
noan o’ th’ owd stock, lass. Thy
folks ne’er rooted theirsels i’ th’
soil like mine. It’s fifty year come next
Whisundy (Whitsuntide) since Jimmie’s faither
brought me here; and as I come in by wedlock, I could
ha’ liked to ha’ gone out by berryin’.’

‘Come, mother,’ said the now subdued son,
’we’ll find a home for thee, and when
thaa dees we’ll put thee away. Durnd tak’
on like that.’

But the old woman heeded not the kindly words of her
son. Her thoughts were in the past, and she was
reliving the years that were gone. Gazing into
the expiring embers, she saw the forms of long ago;
and talking first to herself, and then to her son and
his wife, she continued, in a crooning voice:

’It’s fifty year come next Whisundy sin
thi faither brought me here, lad—­fifty
year, and it only seems like yesterday. We were
wed at th’ owd church i’ Manchester.
Dan o’ Nodlocks, as used to live up at th’
Chapel-hill, drove us there and back in his new spring-cart;
and what wi’ gettin’ there and being spliced,
and comin’ wom’ we were all th’
day at th’ job. Th’ sun were just
showin’ hissel o’er th’ hill yonder
when we started, and it were goin’ daan o’er
th’ moors when we geet back; and thi faither,
Jimmy, as he lifted me daan from th’ cart and
put me in th’ porch yonder, kissed me and said:
“Sunshine aatside, Jenny, and sunshine in.”
An’ that’s fifty year ago, lad, and I’ve
never slept out o’ th’ owd haas from that
neet to this, and I durnd want to leave it naa.’

‘Well, durnd tak’ on like that, mother;
if tha’ does thaa’ll break my heart.
We shall happen stop yet, who knows?’ and Jim
almost choked with the lie which he told in his wild
anguish to stay the torrent of his mother’s
grief.